


More Than Memories

by TwisterMelody



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:18:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before, during, and after the events of the fall, Sherlock slowly comes to realize the importance of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 7!  
> Prompt: Create a story using one of the previous prompts for Let’s Write.  
> I used the challenge 3 prompt: Write a story inspired by a piece of music.  
> Inspired by the song "Leave Out All The Rest" by Linkin Park.

"Sherlock!"  
  
John's voice ricocheted through the darkness surrounding Sherlock. His eyes opened to reveal nothing but midnight black surrounding him, engulfing his every movement. John's voice grew more frantic with each passing minute, and though Sherlock tried to call out, his voice just wouldn't come. The darkness slowly faded as it was replaced by a vicious, dense fog. It was impossible to get his bearings, or to even tell where John's voice was coming from as it echoed all around him. His feet carried him through the ominous visual, but there was no end, nor did there seem to be a beginning.   
  
Voices filled the air. Some vaguely familiar, but mostly that of strangers, perhaps of people he'd barely met. Endless chatter of radio static made a crescendo though his ears as he tried calling out for John. He was utterly and completely lost. John's warm and worried voice pierced above the static noise, but no one seemed to pay any attention to him. It soon became lost in the endless sea of nonsensical babble, and fear shot through Sherlock's veins at the thought of losing each other.  
  
With every drop of strength left in him, he yelled for John, and his world fell dark and silent.  
  
Sherlock woke with a start, almost managing to fall off the sofa with his spastic movements. His breathing was ragged and his heart was thrumming loudly in his ears. His bleary and somewhat confused eyes finally adjusted after a moment, realizing it was only a dream. And there was John, standing over him with a hand on his shoulder and a worrisome frown on his face.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"Fine," he managed after catching his breath. "Fine."  
  
It was just a dream, after all.

* * *

They were laughing. They had been up all night chasing a particularly dubious bandit through the streets, and now the case had come to a close with the pink sun bobbing up over the horizon, and they were laughing. Sherlock and John had done this so many times before, so many endless days and nights of this that it became routine, and they couldn't care less about the odd looks people gave them as they walked home, wildly grinning from eat to ear.  
  
"Hopefully now you'll get some sleep," John mentioned as the giggles died down.  
  
Sherlock shook his head. When he'd slept the afternoon before, though for only a short time, it hadn't been a pleasant experience. The science of dreams never really came of interest to him, so he brushed it off. Still yet, if he could avoid an unpleasant experience, then he certainly would. "No need for sleep, I'm perfectly fine."  
  
"You weren't fine a few hours ago," John pointed out, "not with nearly getting your head smashed in and all."  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "I'll come to my end sooner or later, John."  
  
John inclined his head and blinked at him. "Wouldn't you rather it be later?"  
  
Cars on the street sped past them as the early morning rush hour was just beginning. Sherlock stared straight ahead of him, his eyes focused on the buildings as they rounded the corner to Baker Street. "Would it make a difference?"  
  
"Of course it would make a difference," John responded.  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed as he glanced at his friend. "To what extent?" He let out a sigh when John failed to answer him, offering only a confused look. "I don't expect to live a long life, I never have," he explained. "Either it will come to an end out here on the streets, or with Moriarty. If it were to happen this very moment, what damage would it cause? Scotland Yard would certainly have more on their hands than they'd know what to do with, of course." He paused briefly, the rustling of the leaves on the ground and the cars on the road filling the silence between them. "I'm needed for my brain, John, nothing else."  
  
"You don't honestly believe that," John said gently after a moment.  
  
They had reached the door to 221B, and Sherlock already had his key in the lock. "Of course I do, for I know it to be the truth." It was all he'd known his entire life, and he had a firm grasp on the situation, he thought. Sociopathic genius labeled as a freak; what difference would it make if he were to disappear? He pushed the door open.  
  
John stood on the steps outside after Sherlock had already entered the building. Sherlock turned to look at him, and John, it seemed, was internally conflicted. He shuffled his foot and glanced down to the ground looking immensely uncomfortable. "Sherlock..."   
  
"What is it?"  
  
John shut his mouth slowly and cleared his throat. "Nothing. Just..." He shook his head as he walked up the stairs, leaving Sherlock at the door.  
  
It was only a quick flash as John walked by him, and at that moment, he didn't understand the anguished look that fell upon John's face.

* * *

Before John Watson entered his life, time was a slow and tedious crawl.  
  
Cases upon cases presented themselves, but what was left to fill the space between them?  
  
He was fine, of course. He had spent years convincing himself that he was perfectly fine on his own. Never once did it cross his mind that perhaps he was wrong. Throughout his childhood, his rebellious teen years, and through most of his adult life, he found the company of others more of a chore than anything else. He had never stopped to ponder that maybe, just maybe he hadn't found the right person to adventure through it with yet, nor did he think such a person even existed.  
  
John changed his perspective on his life just a bit, but a bit was all that was needed. He found himself unbelievably happy for the first time in his adult life. Of course, they had disagreements, and Sherlock was still learning from mistakes he made, but it worked. He had laughed more times than he ever remembered, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins with John at his side gave him the best kind of high there was.  
  
But, along with John came Moriarty, and Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before that vicious creature would reappear.  
  
Sherlock was abruptly pulled out of his thoughts when bits of popcorn landed on his chest.  
  
"You paying attention?" John asked as he shifted himself on the sofa, seemingly comfortable with Sherlock's feet in his lap.  
  
Sherlock resettled himself. "Of course I am," he responded before going back to his reading. Knowing how to focus on multiple things simultaneously had been a skill he had learned quickly. He was able to read, think, and watch John's program with him at the same time. It was a rather interesting medical show that even Sherlock would admit to liking inwardly, but would feign indifference if asked.  
  
John spoke quietly when the show came to an end. "Promise me you'll never do that."  
  
Sherlock glanced up at the television from behind his book. "I've already ridden a motorbike," he muttered.  
  
"Not that. All of _that_ ," he said, waving one hand in front of him. "Faking his own death? Probably a bit not good."  
  
John often compared him to characters in television shows and movies, all of which Sherlock scoffed at. How ridiculous it was in his mind to make such a comparison. This program was no different, with John pointing out the numerous similarities between themselves and two of the actors on their screen. Usually, he wouldn't indulge John with the luxury of useless conversation about fiction, but this prospect seemed rather interesting, no matter how unfathomable the situation presented to him seemed.  
  
"It all worked out in the end, did it not?" he asked in reference to the grand finale of it all.  
  
"That's beside the point," he told him with a stern look.  
  
Really, applying what he'd seen on television to real life was an odd thing to Sherlock. "I won't make any promises," he declared eventually.  
  
John flipped off the television with the remote and set it aside. "Yeah, well, if you ever did pull a stunt like that - _dying_ and all - I'd have to kill you."  
  
"Seems like a rather unfair contradiction," he remarked, not bothering to cover up the amusement in his voice.  
  
"Nope," he laughed, shaking his head. "After all, I should be the one to kill you, I deserve it," he teased. "Git."  
  
Sherlock smirked at him as John batted his feet away and wandered off to the kitchen. It hit him in that moment that it would matter very much should his life end early, because coming to an end wouldn't be just for him. Coming to an end would mean the walls of the dangerous and amazing life he and John had built around each other would come crumbling down as well. Everything they had - the laughter, the thrill, the feeling of _home_ \- would become nothing more than memories.  
  
Yet, Moriarty had made him a threat Sherlock was sure he was determined to keep his word on.  
  
He swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat and watched John carefully out of the corner of his eye.  
  
The clock was ticking.

* * *

He had only himself to blame.  
  
The ledge felt unsteady as he stood on it, the wind whipping wildly around him as icy rain stung his face. He had been the one to pursue Moriarty, and where did that leave him now? It left him alone on a rooftop, facing his fear. Either it was a success and he should save those important in his life - John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade - or it would be a failure and he would leave far too soon, leaving behind so much unfinished business. Whatever the outcome, there would be pain for everyone involved.  
  
Who was the winner in this case?  
  
John's voice on the other line held steady at first, comforting, reassuring. This was his last chance to speak to him before he had to disappear. John had stood at his side since the moment he met him, something that never failed to amaze Sherlock. No matter where he went, John Watson was always there beside him as his guiding light, and now he had to flip the switch. His body betrayed him on that ledge as his usual stony mask was melted away. Trembling waves shook him to the core as he let out a bark of nervous laughter to John.  
  
The determination in his voice told him everything he needed to know; John would never stop believing, it just wasn't in his nature. Too much time between them and too much trust had been earned. Sherlock nearly regretted it, regretted meeting him that day with what he was about to do, but it had to be done. There was no getting out of this one. Though he knew by the unease and fear swinging along the edge of John's voice that he was terrified, unwilling to accept the reality in front of him, Sherlock still wouldn't have traded that time for anything in the world. He was still selfish in that way.  
  
They say when you're dying, your life flashes before your eyes. Freefalling through the air, the only thing running across Sherlock's mind was John.

 _"Jus- just so I know, do you care about that at all?"_ is what John had asked him on the fringes of an argument.  
  
 _"Will caring about them help save them?"_  
  
 _"Nope."_  
  
 _"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."_  
  
 _"And you find that easy do you?"_  
  
If John were to ask him the same thing in this very moment, his answer would be different. No, it wasn't easy, and that's precisely why he chose not to do so. Emotions were strange things, and if you weren't careful, they could become consuming, distracting, and dangerous. Always he had kept himself in check, always he was so certain of himself. When John came along, he threw it into a disarray of beautiful chaos.  
  
And all he could think as he lay on the cold wet pavement was, "I'm sorry."

* * *

John Watson was a strong-willed man with nerves of steel and a stubborn streak. A captain, a doctor, and a good friend. John Watson was, and always would be, important. The man who made a change in Sherlock Holmes, how could he not be? To see him in a mess that he could have prevented nearly made Sherlock wince.  
  
Sherlock had told him once he would meet his end sooner or later, so many months ago. They both knew it couldn't last with their lifestyle, but to happen like this, to be separated by a one way mirror of sorts was unimaginable.  
  
When John claimed to be angry, Sherlock wondered if he resented him at all. He made mistakes, of course, though he'd never admit to them. He had regrets, actions done that were looked down upon, but surely John wouldn't focus on those. At least, Sherlock hoped not. When John started his monologue, he realized it wasn't actually the case at all. As John kept talking, Sherlock felt what could only be described as touched.  
  
What it must be like to have a part of yourself torn away so abruptly, to have a sense of emptiness run so deeply through your soul knowing nothing can ever fill it.  
  
Sherlock was glad he wasn't the one to know.  
  
He wanted to shake him, to tell him to stop all of this nonsense at once as it wasn't necessary. Like so many other times, though, Sherlock had to push away his automatic reflex to point out the unseen. He wondered if John was blaming himself as people sometimes did. He wanted to tell him, "This isn't your fault. You couldn't have stopped this. This was my own doing, can't you see?" But John couldn't know the truth, not for now, anyway. He couldn't be what John was, he couldn't be _alive_. To lay low with the dead was the key, to become nothing more than a ghost passing through the streets.  
  
John's last words seemed to get lost through the air between them, but Sherlock heard them loud and clear. "But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... Be... Dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."  
  
Sherlock left the graveyard that day with determination surging through his body.  
  
That was one promise he could keep.

**Author's Note:**

> Gave off a nod and reference to another favorite television show of mine in here whose finale mirrored that of Reichenbach... :)


End file.
